what love means
by onewingedbird
Summary: Jon returns to Winterfell and prepares to deal with anger and slighted feelings. He finds understanding and a revelation instead.


Sansa allows them to present a united front in the courtyard. There are too many eyes watching for her to openly defy him, name him a traitor for bending a knee to the dragon queen, giving away their home, the freedom they had risked their lives and lost Rickon for. She had once said that they would never be safe if they didn't take back Winterfell. They had, and he'd given it away without even asking her.

He cannot blame her if she is furious with him. It is all that occupied his mind after Daenerys has gone to the rooms provided for her to wash, and he follows the three Starks to her private chamber.

The door shuts, and he turns to Sansa, ready to deliver the speech he'd prepared on the journey home. "I know that you're angry with me."

"Angry?" She exhales, her shoulders dropping. "Jon, you're home. You came back after riding south to meet with a Targaryen I was sure would set her dragons on you as soon as you arrived. I don't care what you had to say or do to manage it. You survived." Was it shock or gratitude that stayed his tongue? There is the barest hint of a smile on Arya's face while Bran watches on impassively. "But now that you _are_ here, we have much to discuss."

"We do." He looks hesitantly at his siblings. The Night King killed a dragon; there is no telling if they would be able to win this war between the living and the dead. Yet, he cannot bring himself to say it. He cannot bring with him more fear.

Bran speaks up from the corner he'd placed himself in. "I am the three-eyed raven. I see the past." Jon's eyes flit to Sansa; she nods. "I saw you born. You are not a bastard, and you are not our brother. You are the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You are our cousin, Aegon Targaryen, and the heir to the Iron Throne."

His dubious expression is plain for them to see. Not Eddard Stark's son when he, of all of the boys, has his look the most? Not Eddard Stark's son but a Targaryen without the name's mark of silver hair or lilac colored eyes?

"It is true that Bran knows things he couldn't have if he didn't have this gift. He saw me here in Winterfell before he returned and Arya on the road. He saw Littlefinger betray Father and hold a knife to his throat." She lifts a hand to his arm. "I'm sorry, Jon."

A trembled rocked his frame. Another breath. And another. "None of this matters. Who sits the Iron Throne is a problem for after the war. What we need are more men, more dragonglass, even more dragons if she had them. Winter is here, and —-"

"They say," Arya begins in that soft, chilling way she speaks now, "that when a new Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. Half mad, half sane. Which do you think you are?"

He swallows, thinking of the path of devastation a dragon could leave with a queen who refused to be defied, hearing the screech of them overhead.

"Arya," Sansa rebukes, but her eyes hold something akin to pity, and he suddenly cannot bear it.

"He knows the truth. Daenerys Targaryen cannot be allowed to rule. Not here, not anywhere."

He straightens and sets his shoulders back. "I am tired from my journey. I will retire now." His fist grasps the handle when the door shuts behind him.

It is no use trying to restrain Bran's apathy; her jaw clenches but a moment.. "There were gentler ways to tell him. All his life, he's only ever wanted to be a Stark, and now that is gone to him forever. Can you understand what that means for him?" She is most surprised at Arya, Jon's fiercest supporter. She looks at her in question now.

"He must come to see her for what she is," Bran intones.

"A conqueror. But he is our brother."

Sansa looks at the pair of them, so alike now in their stillness, in the emptiness she sees in their eyes at times. Perhaps, it is in her own eyes as well. Only Jon lets his heart be seen clearly now.

Her knock on his chamber door is soft. The door opens, and she steps through, closing it gently behind her. Leaning her back against it, she watches him. His breaths are heavy like he's just come from battle. His stance weary in a way it wasn't even after he stood up from beating Ramsay Bolton bloody. The fire's crackles fill the silence when Jon's breaths are no longer visible.

Then, she walks towards him. She longs to touch him but refrains.

"What do you think?" He asks, his eyes focused on her.

"If you wish it, we would wait until the war with the dead is over and send our men along with you for your rightful place as King of the Andals. And if you wish it, I see no reason you can't relinquish your claim to the Iron Throne as you did to the North's. You needn't die fighting for a position you don't even want. You could stay here, home. Where you belong. Only if you wish it." A soft exhale and he reaches for her hand. Her voice turns soft as a prayer. "If you wish it, no one need know at all apart from Bran, Rickon, Samwell and I. We have told no one else thus far, and we would keep your counsel."

"If I wish it…" he sighs.

She smiles. "I'm sure I'll know that you've chosen wrong as soon as you've decided." But he cannot share in her jape.

"This puts all of us at risk. You are my heir, Sansa. Should I fall, that makes you the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And Bran and Arya after you. She has fought for this since birth. She will not give up her claim so easily now, not with three dragons riding with her."

"Having been away from King's Landing all her life, and a woman, her claim will be contested, whatever good that will do. Whenever a claim is contested, other potential heirs will be killed like Ramsay killed Rickon, Joffrey killed Robert's bastards, and Robert killed Rhaegar's children before him. The heir apparent will always be killed so that the usurper may rule in peace." Her eyes water but in a blink the tears are gone. "I will not allow it."

Their faces are closer now than before. His eyes take her in: the hard set of her mouth, the faint blush of indignation on her cheeks, the firm grip on his hand. Finally, the pain in his eyes dims, and he smiles. "Let's speak of happier things. Tell me how Lord Baelish died."

Her laugh is high and bright.

In the end, they didn't have to worry about a battle between Targaryens, or whatever he is now and her. Daenerys Targaryen falls along with her dragon, and he returns to Winterfell with no one the wiser to his claim. There is only the sure, recurring thought that in order to have what he wants, he must relinquish all he's ever wanted.

Three-eyed raven he may be, but Bran only speaks of rightful heirs as Father would have. He expects Jon to take his birthright and the kingdoms that come with it. It would be too easy with the suspicion already clouding him now that Daenerys' last surviving dragon obeys him, whispers that the dragon queen has named him her heir and somehow past her powers onto him. Arya only declared, "if we won't have the mad queen ruling, you can stay here with us as King in the North."

It is Sansa who doesn't seem to know what to expect of him then. She only looks at him with that steady gaze that makes him want to shift his feet and hide his face. He goes to her solar after dinner. They have somehow, the four of them, survived the war, and he cannot decided if they should wage another one without knowing what she desires.

She bids him enter. He finds her seated and sewing a garment. It is in Stark colors, but there is a deep red fabric in the basket in front of her.

He clears his throat and sits. He touches first the basket, the chair arms, the table. His moves are featherlight and fast. She watches him all the while which makes it both easier and harder to say, "I wondered if I could have your opinion on something." She gives a slight nod but puts her needlework down. How to say this ugly, wretched thing he's kept? What can he offer her? Not being queen - she doesn't want it. Not himself - she will see him as he is, a true Targaryen, longing after his own sister. His jaw works. He sets his eyes on her hair. _Kissed by _fire, the wildings call it. His hands clench.

"You want to go south. You want to take the throne," she says.

It's a start. "Yes. We've defeated the Night King. Perhaps, there will never be another. I cannot say. If I were to be king of the Realm, I could ensure that if he or another like him should rise again, the North would be given sufficient aid in men and supplies. I could ensure my heirs and their heirs and so forth were told." The honorable reason he has plucked from the weirwood heart tree, surely. But she sees him.

"You believe that your descendants, generations later, will believe in White Walkers because you say it?" The tone is flat. He feels blood rise to his cheeks.

"There's a chance," he presses, "but I wouldn't count on it. Being my descendants and therefore descendants of the North should protect Winterfell." It comes out weak and empty. It is true, but it is not why he is here, like this.

"What do you want? Tell me."

A swallow. "I want to stay here with you and Bran and Arya. I want to live out my days here as Lord Eddard Stark's son who has both his honor and stubbornness. I want to be Bran and Arya's brother. Yet, I don't want to be yours." He must be brave as Father, as sure-footed as Robb on the battlefield. "I want to be by your side and watch over you. I want to protect you until the day I die and know even then that I've left you set so safely no harm would come to you in my absence. I want to see you happy and loved, but I don't want to be your brother. I don't want to be you brother."

For brief moment, there is silence. A small crease between Sansa's eyebrows, and then she reaches for the red fabric. Her hand has a slight tremor, but her voice is steady when she says, "Well then. I should get these finished quickly."

Only a fool would miss the way Jon's eyes tend to linger on hers, on her lips at times. And she hadn't been a fool since she'd married Ramsay Bolton. She sighs at herself. One day, all memory of him would disappear, but today is not that day. She still thinks of him when she sees the scars, when she wakes in the night after a dark dream, when someone moves too close too fast. Never mind that. After the Battle of the Bastards, as even their own men called it, Jon had told her that they needed to trust one another. The shame of deceit was fresh, and she vowed to truly trust him then. Not simply give him as much as she'd thought herself able before, holding some secrets to herself lest she find a use for them in future.

Was it only a desire to protect and be protected at first? It grew into an awareness. _If I must marry again, let him be like Jon, _she'd thought to herself, looking at him ruffling the hair of a wildling boy. Or the barely repressed snarl when Littlefinger would draw near to her. He was like the knights she had dreamt of as a girl: strong for the weak, kind to the helpless, and handsome while he acted on their behalf. He is like Robb in that way with less divided loyalties.

When the meaning of Jon's gaze upon her changed, it was with curiosity and gratitude that she looked back at him. No, she could not have learned even this from Cersei. Neither could it disgust her as it should. It soothed a deep wound for a true knight in all but name to fight for her and long for her as only a proper lady should be fought and longed for, not the badly repaired thing she is now. It still does. Perhaps, the ease in her chest when he is close, the certainty that she will never want to marry another, and that she thinks him so very handsome is enough.

She had never thought of him as truly her brother as a child, and it is not the type of love that could be suddenly built. There hadn't been enough time for that. And now, it seems that was for the better.

Again, the luck is theirs. Jon never wages war with his dragon, Rhaegal. It seems the previous wars have made them friends where it has made others enemies. He is the last Targaryen, and, after some proof from Bran, the Crownlands welcome their king. She does not need to leave the keep to support his cause. Their Uncle Brynden brings the Riverlands, Theon the Iron Islands, Tyrion and Jaime the Westerlands, and Sansa the Vale. What remains of the Reach bends the knee without disdain, recalling how kindly their Lady Margaery spoke of his now cousin, Sansa. Even if they had wanted to fight, their fighting men are dead after the siege of Daenerys Targaryen's Unsullied, who with no other master to call their own, follow Jon now.

For all that has been done to secure the Iron Throne, there is very little bloodshed and fanfare when Jon claims it.

"We won't live in King's Landing," he says as they watch Arya in the training ground below. "There's no reason why we cannot rule from here. With all the death it's brought of late, no one seems to want to _sit_ the Iron Throne but me."

She glances up at him and away again. She has been cautious since his proposal. They are in a space they have created themselves, between sibling and cousin, cousin and spouse. Her red hair catches the light. She is resplendent. He has to avert his eyes then when she catches him admiring her. The laugh in her eyes does not reach her lips. He wishes she would let it.

"It could work for a time. Eventually, you and your lady wife will need to venture south to hear your people's complaints lest that after winter has gone again, they raise a rebellion against the king they have not seen since he urged them bend a knee like the kings before him." She turns to face him then. It brings her cloak against his. "However, as you have a dragon, you ought to visit your kingdoms even during winter, see what it is you can do for them and listen even if you cannot provide aid." Her eyes fix on his throat now, her voice soft and serious. "I would not wish us to be as hated as the Lannisters who let the smallfolk starve while they feasted," she says.

"We won't be," he says. "I will make sure of it." In his mind's eye, he sees his back straightening and feels as he once did when Sansa would have him and Robb take turn playing the knight to the other's jailor. It is a silly that one smile from her at his answer makes him feel sure and ready to do her bidding. _If only I were able to make her happy_, he thinks.

Nothing has changed. They still argue after a meeting with the small council on where best to send their limited resources; she hems and sews while they continue arguing in her solar if it hasn't finished. Or he reads, glancing up at the the way the fire sets half her face in shadow and sets it alight in the next moment. She watches him train from the battlements, and he watches her ensure that they shall survive the winter with whatever stress the smallfolk pouring into the keep has given the stores. His eyes stay on her form a bit too long, and she touches him more than is necessary. It is as it always was.

And yet, everything is different. He worries himself until knots form in his stomach and his face looks so morose that Tormund mutters, "the Southerners always find something to weep over even when they've got their chairs and the prettiest woman in 1,000 miles sworn to them." Even Arya does not try to best him at swords anymore.

"I don't know what I was thinking," he laments to her one day. "My sister —"

"Cousin. Isn't that the reason you rode south in the first place? So you could marry our pretty sister?" She asks. They are seated in the armory, and Arya twirls Needle as she speaks. As always, her voice is low and dangerous. He would find it disturbing if she hadn't told him she didn't care when he'd told her of the upcoming nuptials.

He thanks the gods he has not shaved his beard. It covers some of the redness of his face. "Well, yes, but —"

"But now you're scared." Her eyes meet his then, and they are of the Arya of old. She is laughing at him though her face is still. "You should speak to her. If you're scared, I imagine she's terrified."

It feels like an age since she has prayed, but she finds need of it now. Winter is here, their every battle behind them for as long as it lasts for no one wages war in winter. She sits below the heart tree whens he is done. It was hours on her knees, begging for forgiveness for losing faith and the continued safety and protection of her remaining family members. She brushes the snow from her dress and leans forward, her mind finally at rest.

She knew when she'd ordered a full ream of that fabric what Jon would choose. She could not say how. Her heart simply knew that between the choice of remaining as her brother, the King in the North, and her cousin and, someday, her lord husband, he would choose the latter. For that was what the choice was. Jon never desired to be King in the North let alone the Protector of the Realm.

Since then, they have been careful with each other. Everything the same with many words unspoken.

He finds her there. She does not know how many hours have passed; the light has begun to fade from the sky. They say nothing at first. He sits beside her. She leans into him and he into her. They pretend it is for the little warmth that has been stolen from air around them with the light.

Jon speaks first. "I wonder what Father would say if he saw us now."

"If you had always been Aegon Targaryen and not hidden here as Jon, we might have had an arranged marriage. Imagine my disappointment when I look upon my southron prince only to find a man with more of the Stark look than I or any of my brothers," she chuckles. Her finger nudge the hair from his face. "Now, it gives me comfort." Her hand cups his cheek. "A face I trust, a mind I know and a character that does not falter. "

"Could it be enough?" He asks, ducking his head. "That you trust me?"

Her lips pucker to one side in thought. She stares at him in her assessing way. "For me, it is everything. You're a good man, Jon. I… I am glad that it will be you. And you?" She asks after a moment.

"You don't think it distasteful that I should desire you?"

Her chin raises haughtily. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. When I was born, the bells rung from sunrise to sunset. I doubt anyone could blame you, cousin, for wanting the Winter Rose for yourself."

They laugh long and loud then. What small tension had refused to be let out dissipated then. It reminds her of when they spoke at Castle Black. They were both of them uncertain of what their reception would be. The bastard and the prized daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Some food, some assurances and they had settled. They would again.

"If we had been closer as children, it would most likely be different. But we weren't. I thought of you as my brother, believe me, but we did not squabble as siblings like Arya and I did, or share our burdens like I'm sure you did with Robb. We were forever on the periphery of each other's childhoods. We never thought we would see each other alive again; at least, I was sure you would bury me. And then you and I were aligned against what felt like the world together.

"It would increase the regard between any two people, and ours had yet to grow into a true relationship between siblings. Maybe it is why it took us time to trust one another. Arya and I were plotting almost as soon as she was within the keep. So, it is not so very strange to me."

He wraps an arm around her at a shiver from her. "It's the same for me."

"And anyway, why should what makes us happy be strange? There are many terrible things that have happened that are not considered odd at all."

He closed the distance between them to press his lips on hers. She stills for a moment. Soon, her lips return the pressure and part beneath his so that his tongue may taste her. He tastes of the North. He tastes like home.

The wedding is small. After two weddings, Sansa had only wanted their closest allies with them: Arya, Bran, Brienne of Tarth, Tormund, Davos, and a select few others. She wore a the lightest grey, a testament to her lack of a maidenhead, as if he cares, and the Stark colors. When she drops her cloak, he places one of their own design on her. It is a several shades of grey that somehow work as one to represent both Stark and Targaryen.

Their children will be more Stark than Targaryen. He is glad of it as is she.

The claim each other before the old gods, and it is different than laying claim to a kingdom. Sansa, with her smile that quickens on her face when she looks up at him, is far precious than any lands or holdings. But he will give them all to her should she wish it.

Later, perhaps moons later, he will lick her scars. She will bear him children, and he will call call every other Stark and Targaryen so that each of his names lives on. He will bring her lemon cakes and roses for her hair. He will sing her songs while she brushes it until it gleams in the moonlight. He will read for her when her eyes grow tired. He will even dance, though he was never that skilled in it. He will lay waste to the Seven Kingdoms and all their enemies hold dear. If she wishes it.


End file.
